


finding home

by itsmylifekay



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, POV Alternating, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:56:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10110200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: Glancing over his shoulder at the men riding at his back, he takes in all the restless, pent up energy, crackling like an unseen whip even as they lope easily along the dry, packed grasses. They’re a band of predators waiting for the next hunt, a wolf pack in the making.





	1. Sam Chisolm

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous prompt for more gen fic in the Mag 7 fandom, hope it's up to snuff!
> 
> And thanks to Hazel_Athena for all the support and encouragement^^

For a long time, there wasn’t much more Sam wanted out of life than revenge. He’d sought out vile men of all sorts and brought them to face their punishment, he’d given justice to those who’d been wronged, and each day he’d lived in the shadow of his own failure.

The failure to bring one specific vile man to face punishment.

The failure to bring justice to his family.

He’d nursed a bitter anger in himself that he’d only come to know the true extent of once it had been stripped of its purpose, Bartholomew Bogue dead on the church floor beside him. Punishment. Justice. And suddenly he was left with no true North on his compass, only a needle wobbling unsure in its casing, alone in the middle of the plains with not a single star in sight to guide his way home.

Stepping out of that church, he was a lost man. 

Hollowness in his heart and a numbing pain where anything else should be, he couldn’t imagine moving forward into a life where the need for vengeance no longer ran through his veins thicker than blood. A life where he no longer had that purpose to wrap himself in like a cloak on cold nights, dark days, or even darker hours where he felt like he was a dead man set forth to walk the earth with no real end in sight.

Stepping out of that church, he lifted his head to find Vasquez and Red covered in blood and grief, looking to him to patch their broken band together again. Looking to him to fix the wrongness that had come into their worlds that day.

Stepping out of that church, he was found.

Now, he has a new mission. And he prays every day that God would grant him the patience to see it through.

“Oye, cabrón, sit down and drink your whiskey.”

“You aren’t my mother, _vaquero_ ,” Faraday snipes back, unsteady on his feet as he grabs for his drink and takes a healthy swallow before banging it back down on the table.

“And aren’t we all thankful for that,” Goodnight says.

Vasquez grunts in something like agreement and Faraday sways before sitting heavily back down in his seat and taking another drink. Sam bites back a sigh and meets Goodnight’s eyes across the table, sharing a knowing look that neither of them are particularly eager to acknowledge. Because as lovely as it’s been living among the people of Rose Creek, enjoying their hospitality and nursing the most battered of their group back to health, they can all feel that it’s time to be moving on.

With Goodnight and Billy healing from getting peppered with shrapnel and ricochet up in the steeple, and Faraday working on putting himself back together after nearly getting blasted to kingdom come, they’ve been cooling their heels in one spot far longer than any of them are used to. And it is painfully obvious to anyone who cares to look.

So while the good town doctor might not approve of their leaving, it’s long since been accepted by anyone who’s known them for more than an hour or so that they don’t much care to follow what people expect. 

Horne had been up and walking long before he had a right to, favoring his unpunctured hand but otherwise seemingly unbothered. He’s truly a bear of a man if Sam’s ever met one.

And Goodnight and Billy were different kinds of slippery, talking or sneaking their way out of bed and the good doctor’s gaze whenever they were able. Damned Faraday had nearly put them all back into an unwelcome grave with all the stunts he pulled, not opening his eyes for a worrying amount of time and being an ornery cuss of a thing as soon as he did. So while it’s not strictly advised that they ride out still so battered and bruised, he only needs to take a quick look around the table to know that getting out of town sooner rather than later will spare more grief in the long run.

\--

“Everyone have everything they need now?” Sam asks, mounted on his horse and looking over the six gathered round him. “It’ll be at least a few days before the next town.”

He gets a few grumbles in response, mostly the rustle of leather and cloth as man and horse alike shift anxiously, ready to head out into the vast openness of the plains and leave this small town behind.

Goodnight glances at Billy then gives Sam a smile and a nod, accounting for his partner as much as himself. Horne is the only one to actually speak, already chewing on a piece of jerky as he squints out into the rising sun. “The old has passed away; behold, the new has come,” he nods once then turns in Sam’s direction. “This day will be one of light, let no evil darken its edges.”

He quiets after that, seemingly content with his proclamation, and Sam clears his throat to bring focus back to the task at hand. Faraday pulls out his whiskey and takes a drink, grinning like the unrepentant devil he is when Sam looks heavily in his direction.

“Well then,” he says. “I suppose we’d best get going. Been living off the hospitality of these nice folks long enough.” And with that and a click of his tongue, they’re off, leading their horses out of the shade of the stable and into the dusty street beyond, drawing the attention of the townsfolk stirring in the early hours. They offer thankful nods and murmurs, some following them on their path to the edge of town until a small group has gathered to send them off. 

Mrs. Emma Cullen is of course in their midst, along with Teddy, the preacher and the long suffering doctor, the last of whom is standing with a pinched but resigned expression.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Cullen says, voice as strong as ever, clear she means it down to her very soul. “We’ll never forget what you did for us. All of us.” She makes sure to look each of them in the eye and mostly gets bowed heads in return, apart from the tipped hat from Goodnight and the quiet murmur from Horne. Sam and her exchange a weighted look before he gives a nod, to her and then to the men beside her.

Then they’re truly on their way, turning out towards an open expanse not one of them thought they’d see again, away from a town that they’d all nearly died for. And he’s under no illusions that they’d gathered in that little town for any kind of greater good. They came because there was a promise of gold and whiskey and violence.

And now that they’re only down to the gold and the whiskey, they’re off looking for more battles to fight. They’re violent men with violent pasts, each and every one as blood stained as the last, and they’ve long since forgotten how to live quietly. 

Glancing over his shoulder at the men riding at his back, he takes in all the restless, pent up energy, crackling like an unseen whip even as they lope easily along the dry, packed grasses. They’re a band of predators waiting for the next hunt, a wolf pack in the making.

And somehow he finds himself standing at its head.

He lets the weight of that responsibility settle heavily on his shoulders, ground him in a purpose that he wraps quietly around himself in the privacy of his own mind. There’ll be new battles to fight, new men to bring to punishment, and new people to help find their own vengeance-- now that he and the people of Rose Creek have found theirs.

The sun is a bright, hot thing in the sky and it glares down at them in judgment, asking what kind of life they’ll choose. What kind of history they’ll make and whose blood they’ll spill. They’re at a crossroads, him and the dangerous men beside him, and he’s eager to see which path they’ll take. Hopes he has the strength of body and mind to see it through, to guide them towards something like trust and friendship that stays mostly within the law, and away from the kind of wild destruction he can see like a thundercloud looming on the horizon.

He urges his horse onwards and tips his hat against the sun.

The others match his pace, sensing the urgency and the freedom growing with each bit of ground they cover. A hot wind stirs up dust and rustles the dry grass.

The sky stretches endless before them.

Behind him, Red Harvest lets out a whoop, voice cutting into the air and making the world seem vastly larger and smaller all at once.

They ride on.

Seven shadows beneath the rising sun.

\--

“And then the moon rises and reflects the day, casting it into memory,” Goodnight takes another drag on his cigarette and exhales smoke towards the night sky, seemingly lost in thought for a moment before he catches Billy’s smirk and everyone else’s rather blank expressions.

Sam is used to him by now.

“Pardon,” Goodnight demurs suddenly, a completely un-sorry tilt to his mouth. “I believe I promised only one-syllable words from now on.”

Catching on quick, Faraday snorts and takes another drink of his whiskey, “Still don’t know what the hell a syllable is.”

Everyone chuckles at that and Goodnight shakes his head before going back to his cigarette, passing it to Billy every now and again as the night moves on. The fire is crackling like a jovial eighth guest, warm and inviting as it casts shadows up against the loose circle of rocks at its base. It’s been almost a week on the road now and slowly they’ve begun to settle into an evening routine, everyone adjusting to life without any real privacy and few comforts.

Horne is already tucked off to the side on his bedroll, apparently one of those nights where the call of a decent rest is stronger than Goodnight’s silver spun stories or the spectacle Faraday and Vasquez often like to make of themselves around the fire. Not that any of them are going to last much longer themselves, healing bodies and long days on the trail enough to help any man pass into a quick sleep come night.

“Next town is about a four day ride from here,” Sam says to whoever’s listening. “Small place, shouldn’t run into trouble.”

“Shouldn’t is a dangerous word,” Goodnight sighs, breathing out the last of his cigarette, smoke curling up towards the sky. “But I suppose we can’t hope for better than that.”

Sam hums in agreement, the rest of the men seem largely unconcerned.

The moon is a waning orb that Billy tips his hat against, settled down close to Goodnight with his gun close at hand and the remnants of their last shared cigarette turning into ash down by the fire. Faraday flicks a stone at Vasquez’s head, cackles at the eyeroll and the muttered _cabrόn_ he gets in return, then settles down onto his own bedroll with the ghost of satisfaction still lingering on his face. Goodnight is the next to follow, content with the hazy taste of cigarettes on his tongue, the only one whose gun abides by the barest definition of ‘within arm’s reach’.

He and Faraday sleep like the dead these days, still healing and with just enough liquor to dull the pain. But they’re well watched. Billy still wakes at a pin drop and he’d sooner stick his own hand then let something get to Goodnight, and Sam’s noticed Vasquez keeping a grudging eye on Faraday, staying close despite the constant testing of his patience.

Vasquez finally lies down, and then it’s just he and Red awake beneath the dark expanse of sky. He’ll sleep soon, can already feel it pulling at his eyelids, the heaviness in his limbs.

The fire is warm against the soles of his feet. It sparks and crackles and Red stands without a word and crouches closer to its warmth. They share a look across the flames, Sam not missing the twin spark of amusement there as Faraday mumbles and twitches in his sleep.

A spark lands on the ground and glows orange against the packed dirt, a bright speck that soon fades to indistinguishable grey. The flames have died down and lick between the last ashy branches, waves of soft light that catch the eye and don’t let go, tease the senses.

Finally, Red stands and goes back to his bedroll, lies down on the ground and goes still.

The night is silent, the fire hardly a whisper.

Sam pulls his hat down against the glow of moonlight.

They’ve got another long day tomorrow.


	2. Joshua Faraday

Faraday might not have a way with words like Goodnight, or a level head like Sam, but he likes to think that what he lacks in learning and patience he makes up for with his ability to walk into any bar and make it his own. He drinks rotgut like water and plays cards with anyone foolish enough to join him, has his gun at his hip but reaches for it only when pressed. He’s out for a thrill but not to get shot.

He has enough bullet holes in him to last the rest of his life and then some, so he’s always careful to walk that line between pressing his luck and being plain foolish.

It’s become a much wider line now that he’s got six armed men on his side.

They’re at a bar a few towns into New Mexico territory, Rose Creek over a month’s ride behind them, and he’s happily settled at a table with a handful of cards and a few disgruntled challengers. He’s made a fair turn around on his money and he’s contemplating whether to keep going and see if he can’t make it better or call it a night when Sam calls to him from two tables down.

“Faraday, you about done?”

He glances over and sees that the older man is giving him a look, a none too subtle request to get himself back over to the group, probably to discuss their plans for the next few days or some new route they want to take. Always wanting to get everyone’s opinion, real insistent on it.

“Yeah, be right there.”

The men at the table with him shift and grumble and if Vasquez hadn’t already been standing Faraday has no doubt that that would’ve got him moving as well, something suddenly in his head that Faraday needs watching. Like he hasn’t wriggled himself out of similar trouble hundreds of times before.

But some things have changed, he’ll admit. He’s not the same man he used to be.

Vasquez’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder and doesn’t let go as Faraday finishes the hand and calls it a night, rakes in his winnings and gets to his feet. Chair scraping, his bad leg throbs in protest and is stiff and awkward beneath him, leaving him off balance and leaning into the support of Vasquez’s palm. He’d be more upset if it was someone else, coddling or condescending, but since it’s Vasquez Faraday just grunts when he’s settled and bats his hand away.

“Said I was coming,” he grumbles around his glass of whiskey, careful not to spill as he walks. “Didn’t need to come fetch me like I’m some kind of dog.”

“A dog would listen better,” Vasquez grins back.

Faraday glares at him and sits down in the other man’s chair for good measure, slumping back and taking another drink while Vasquez shakes his head and takes the seat next to him instead, grabbing his glass and dragging it closer across the table.

The rest of the group watches with varying levels of disapproval.

Faraday takes another drink.

These small stops to clean up and have some fun are always a bright spot to their travels. And they’ve not gotten run out of town once, able to stay until they get up the muster to hit the road again. It’s something fairly new to him, but not nearly as new as it’s been for Horne, Vasquez, and Red, who haven’t really been around _people_ in, well, months. Or even years in Horne’s case.

Faraday still doesn’t know how the hell he did it. Just the thought of being on his own for so long is enough to drive him crazy. Hell, he can hardly go a day without someone or something to entertain him.

But maybe it did make Horne just a little crazy. God knows they were all insane for going into Rose Creek the way they did.

Sam clears his throat.

Faraday looks up from his glass.

“Now, as I was saying,” Sam says, eyes on Faraday a beat longer before he sweeps them around the table. “We’ve got rooms here for at least the next two days, but we’ve not got a clear idea of where we want to head next. Way I see it, we’ve got three options…”

There’s always options, seems like Sam Chisolm’s the kind of man who can take any situation and find every angle you could please. And while some of the others seem to appreciate that, take all the choices and deliberate and categorize and do all other manner of thinking before coming to a decision, Faraday’s always much happier to go with what’s set in front of him. He’s always lived life less by ‘look before you leap’ and more by ‘leap and then look down and find the best way to land’.

That, and he’s never been the best at sitting and thinking on things like that. Never had the patience for it. And ever since he got his bell rung back at Rose Creek thoughts have taken to slipping like water from his mind even more.

So he settles in his chair and lets the others talk around him, leaning back and taking in the grooves of the table and the creak of his chair when its front legs leave the ground, the heavy thump when Vasquez tilts him right ways up without even glancing his way.

Red’s eyes bore into him from across the table and he’s about to pull a face when the other man looks away, out across the bar where it sounds like someone’s just cursed and split their drink. He’d turn around and see for himself but he knows then Sam would really know he’s not paying attention, so he settles for taking another drink and looking furtively around the table.

It’s a strange bunch of men he’s found himself riding with nowadays, but they do all right.

The door bangs open and the slight flinch from Goodnight doesn’t go unnoticed, nor does the way he leans over to Billy and whispers something in his ear. A cigarette comes out and Faraday’s busy staring at the smoke curling towards the ceiling when he feels eyes on the side of his face.

Red’s staring again, and he lifts a single brow and nods towards Sam when he sees he has Faraday’s attention.

“Back with us then?” Sam asks, sounding by all rights like the father Faraday never really had.

“Told you before, don’t care where we go,” he says and leans back in his chair again, balancing with one hand on the table. “You all have done a fine job picking so far, don’t need my help with that.”

Sam’s mouth purses into a line and Horne lets out a quiet huff to Faraday’s left, no doubt ready to tell him once again about the importance of group decisions, but Faraday’s more concerned with the prickling at his back and the way Billy and Red’s eyes have zeroed in over his right shoulder.

There’s a flurry of movement and he stands before he has to think about it, gun out of its holster and pointed at a man’s head, the same man who coincidentally has a gun pointed at Vasquez.

There’s a resounding click in the sudden silence of the bar as he pulls back the hammer.

Vasquez freezes.

Their unwelcomed guest glances at Faraday out of the corner of his eye.

“Well now,” Sam says, calm as ever. “I believe we have some kind of misunderstanding.”

Goodnight exhales smoke up towards the ceiling, Billy at his side with one hand no doubt already on a knife.

The bar has gone quiet around them.

“Perhaps we do,” the man says slowly, readjusting his grip on the gun now that he has their attention. “How long you known this man for?”

Sam lifts a brow. “Don’t see how that’s any concern of yours.”

“He’s wanted, you know that? Worth five hundred dollars, dead or alive.”

His eyes flick back over to Faraday and Faraday grins, adrenaline rushing through him and taking away the dull ache in his leg from standing up so fast.

“And you plan to collect on that?” Sam asks.

The man swallows, eyes darting around and licking his lips as he takes in the easy acceptance of his declaration and the gun still pointed at his head. “Five hundred dollars, didn’t see how I could pass it up, right in front of me like this.”

Sam nods his head. “Makes sense, that’s a lot of money to let walk by.” The man nods along in agreement; Faraday is still grinning, finger ready on the trigger. “Just don’t see how you plan on using that money if you’re dead.”

The man’s face falls, bravado gone in an instant as he looks around the table and takes in the gunbelts, axes, and knives so casually on display. Red shifts and squares his jaw, Sam still the image of calm disapproval beside him. Sat next to Vasquez on his other side, he hasn’t so much as twitched a finger towards his gun, but it’s one man against seven and they’ve made their message clear-- You want to get to one, you have to go through all.

Slowly, the man lowers his gun and takes a step back. Sam nods towards the door.

“Go on now,” Horne’s quiet voice says. “Get out of here. There need be no bloodshed today.”

Without another word, the man is out of the bar, leaving nothing by the creak of the door in the stuffy silence. Faraday puts his gun away real slow, pulls his chair out and sits so he’s blocking Vasquez from most of the room.

They always do their best to mind how they sit at unfamiliar establishments, usually with Goodnight and Billy in the corner the way they are now, Red tucked in beside them with a scowl and a pointed huff of what he thinks of the situation. Horne and Sam are bookends, levelheaded and sure, sturdy as they come, keeping an eye on them all and the space around them. Faraday and Vasquez are usually at the outer edge, both because they’re big men with instincts to draw first and ask questions later, and because they’re out of their seats enough to warrant the position. Faraday likes his cards, Vasquez likes to hover, and so those seats are often left empty and offer a clear view of the room to everyone else and no one with their backs to the door.

But now, Faraday doesn’t plan on leaving his seat for the rest of the night. He might be banged up but he’s still perfectly capable of spreading out, squaring his shoulders, and making people think twice about coming over. Besides, most people can’t tell he’s banged up unless they see him try and limp down some stairs.

So he takes another drink of his whiskey and shifts one leg so the peacemaker slung over his hip is in clear view, pulling out his cards and going through the motions of shuffling the deck just for something to do. After a few minutes Vasquez readjusts so his back is more towards Sam, legs near tangled with Faraday’s beneath the table and a slight sheen of sweat drying across his brow.

Sam clears his throat. “Maybe it’s best if we get moving on after all.”

No one disagrees.


	3. Goodnight Robicheaux

Goodnight’s used to life on the trail, had started looking for a new life along with so many of his fellow soldiers and never truly stopped, wandering without a final destination first by himself and then with Billy by his side. It was enough.

He got comfortable with Billy’s silence and the open trail, learned to swallow the discomfort while crafting silver words on his tongue and using the name of Goodnight Robicheaux to keep he and Billy out of trouble. They made their living and kept mostly to themselves otherwise. It was enough.

But now they’re back on the trail with five other men around them, adding their own voices and laughter and life to the fabric woven around them like a story. Even their silence is somehow fuller, the beating of seven hearts, the push and pull of seven pairs of lungs. Their horses stamp the dry ground below them.

Some days he basks in it, tells his tales and spins them into things so grandiose even he has to stop and take the time to be impressed. Words that he used to soothe and sliver out from sticky situations are now for shared enjoyment, a witty turn of phrase or a lengthy story to pass time along dusty roads or around quiet campfires. He laughs at Faraday’s poor jokes and Vasquez’s teasing, smirks at the look on Red’s face when Horne tells him to finish his supper.  He entertains and is entertained in turn.

Their little group has certainly come together, like so many unruly children under Sam’s resigned and tired eye. Even Horne is too unpredictable at times to truly be the backbone of reason and morality that Sam seems determined to be. Goodnight is content to leave him to it and enjoy his own breathing room, sharing quiet jokes with Billy and generally sitting back and watching things move by.

But there are days when it gets to be too much, when the blood on his hands is hot and sticky beneath the sun and the owl is waiting, hunched over and hungry just over his shoulder, come to collect its due.

Today Goodnight can feel its talons sinking into his skin, making him prickle and itch beneath his clothes, breaths coming shorter as the life is slowly pressed out of his lungs. The sun’s a bright ball in the sky and there are a few wispy clouds spread across its face, casting faint shadows on the ground that seem to move with the grass.

Goodnight can see blood splattered like flowers in the green.

His hands shake and he wants a cigarette, but they’re with Billy and Billy’s gone off with Horne to check out a rocky outcrop near where they’ve set up camp. Usually, Billy wouldn’t leave him, but Red had already gone off to look for water and Sam, Vasquez, and Faraday had gone to hack down one of the scraggly trees in the distance to feed their fire for the night. So Goodnight is holding down the fort and while he knows Billy and Horne can still see him, that if anyone should approach they’d be more than capable of killing any threat before he had to lift a finger, he still feels horribly exposed.

The owl is a fast and silent predator, hiding in the shadows until it strikes.

Not even Billy would be able to see it in time.

His breath hitches and he can feel perspiration gathering at his collar when the sound of an approaching horse has his head jerking up, heart thundering in his chest until he realizes it’s only Red, swinging down off his mount with ease and tethering it silently along with the rest. Goodnight tries to quell the shaking in his hands, settles them inside the edges of his jacket when that doesn’t work.

Red walks over and pauses a few steps away, seeming to fully notice how they are alone, eyes scanning the horizon until he spots Horne and Billy’s familiar silhouettes against the rocks. He glances down at Goodnight then turns on his heel and goes back to the horses.

For one terrible moment, Goodnight’s heart sinks in his chest, shame overtaking him at the thought that one of the men who he rode with, who he respected and trusted with his life, would see him as so weak and cowardly that they didn’t even know what to do with him. He knows he already let them down once, so this rejection would be a well-deserved but still painful blow to his pride. But Red sidesteps his horse and goes to Billy’s, digging around in the bedroll strapped up out of the dirt while the sun’s still in the sky.

He comes back over to Goodnight and hands him a crumpled but usable cigarette.

“I’m not going to light it for you,” he says, but moves to sit beside him as Goodnight produces a matchbox from his pocket.

A flame bursts to life and Goodnight inhales the first heady mouthful of smoke, exhaling it with a gust with his head and shaking hands angled away from his unexpected companion.

He lets his mouth run to fill the silence. “Should I presume Billy won’t be threatening you with knives later for going through his things, considering it seemed like you knew right where to go?”

Red hums beside him and for a moment Goodnight thinks that’s all he’s going to get.

Then, as if he’s deciding something, Red cocks his head and looks out across their small camp and the mix of supplies and horses and boot prints and says, “Billy told us, ‘just in case’.”

Goodnight blows out another mouthful of smoke. “Us?” He repeats. “Should I take that to mean our whole merry band is allowed to dig through Billy’s personal effects should I get a little twitchy?”

Red gives him a look like he knows Goodnight is trying to deflect and isn’t fooled, or impressed.

He sighs and settles for taking another drag of his cigarette.

The sun beats down and more sweat drips from the nape of his neck down into his collar. He can still feel the owl’s eyes watching from behind his back, round and yellow and unrelenting. His hands shake on the next inhale and Red shifts beside him before leaning forward to drag his finger through the loose dirt at their feet.

“ _Pia Mupitsi,_ ” he says quietly, sitting back again and leaving Goodnight staring stone faced and frozen at the unmistakable figure of a great, flying owl, eyes striking and wide. “Your people would call it… Big Cannibal Owl. It is a story we are told as children.”

Goodnight is transfixed, covered in a cold sweat as he reaches down and traces over one of the smooth lines with his fingers, smudging it slightly with the tremble in his hand. It’s like something dredged from his nightmares and splashed down onto earth, a fearsome and untouchable beast he can suddenly trample beneath his feet.

“I have heard you speak of the owl to Billy,” Red explains.

Swallowing thickly, Goodnight pulls away from the picture and stares quietly at it instead, breathing through the clenching fear in his gut as he looks into its dusty brown eyes.

“I might not be as young as I used to,” he finally says. “But if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to hear that story.”

Red reaches down and draws a blocky mountain range behind the owl’s impressive wings, then group of smaller dots beneath its talons.

“ _ Pia Mupitsi  _ lives in a cave in the mountains,” he says,  pressing his thumb into the dirt to create a divot in one mountain, deep enough that the indent’s cast into shadow. “It comes out at night to eat bad children,” he swipes his fingers through the small dots, gouges like talons in the soft ground. Goodnight hears the screams echoing in his head.

Then suddenly Red’s hand is resting at the center of the owl’s body, palm flat at the monster’s chest. “But  _ Pia Mupitsi _ is far from here. Even the greatest hunters only travel so far.” He moves his hand in a broad sweep until the whole picture is obscured as if through a haze, broken up into so many fragments. “And they are quick to move on to easier prey.”

His eyes sweep around the camp, then pause and flick up past Goodnight’s shoulder, going carefully neutral as he stands and brushes off his hands. The sound of Billy and Horne returning distracts him long enough for Red to slip off to the other side of camp, busying himself with preparing a space for the fire while Goodnight looks up into the sudden shadow cast by Billy’s thin frame.

He doesn’t miss the way Billy’s eyes immediately zero in on the cigarette between his fingers, or the way they flick back to where Red’s knelt on the ground before he sits carefully beside him. “Alright?” he asks.

Goodnight takes the last drag on his cigarette before flicking the stub towards the ground, glowing like an ember in the owl’s heart before Billy snubs it out with his foot.

“I think I’m doing just fine,” Goodnight says, leaning back and watching as the rest of their boys appear on the horizon. “Although I’d like to know what you threatened Faraday with to keep him out of your things.”

Billy’s mouth twitches up at the corner, knives glinting in the setting sun.


	4. Billy Rocks

The sun is hot. The days are long.

Billy sits quietly in the saddle and endures.

There’s not much more to do, really, with the way his life has turned out. He survived the railroad, survived living on his own in a white man’s world, survived Rose Creek. If there’s one thing he’s certain of now it’s his and his companions’ apparent resilience towards death.

They should all be dead a few times over. Yet here they are.

That’s not to say the path is easy, though, far from it. Billy often wonders what he’s gotten himself into, riding beside Goodnight and listening to the bickering and laughter between the other men. Vasquez and Faraday are loud but for the most part predictable, open and brazen in a way that leaves very little to doubt or question. But the others are quiet, Sam with his shrewd eyes and commanding presence, Horne and his quiet, twisting words. Red hardly speaks at all and half the time it’s in Comanche, telling Sam one thing or another before riding off ahead or slipping out of town for an hour or two.

They’re harder to pin down and while Billy had trusted them with his life back in Rose Creek and protected them in kind, he hadn’t expected to be living with them day in and out either. He trusts them with his life, but doesn’t necessarily want them in it.

Goody seems to like it though, the companionship and the willing audience, the distraction from some of the darker thoughts. Faraday and Vasquez might be loud, but he’s watched their banter bring Goody out of one of his moods enough times to tolerate it. And he’s learning to see past it too, past the layers of bravado and alcohol down to the overgrown boys underneath.

He hasn’t forgotten the carefully concentrated look on Faraday’s face as Goodnight finally sat him down and explained syllables, the pinched brow when Goody pulled out a scrap of newspaper and pointed to a few of the letters and words. The gentle coaxing to Goodnight’s voice and the accommodating smile have made a few returns since that night as well, pulling Faraday aside to teach him some new thing or another. He’s even taken to grabbing Red every now and again as well.

Something happened there, Billy knows, but so far Goody hasn’t wanted to tell and Billy hasn’t pushed. So he’s trusting Goody’s judgment and giving the younger man his own nod of approval for the time being.

He carries on, horse keeping pace with the rest of the group as they trod along. The sun is high and scorching overhead. Sweat gathers along his hat and drips down his neck, the sides of his face, hands damp in the black gloves he wears.

It’s another hour’s ride before they hear it.

Water, flowing water in the form of a gentle stream that winds its way through low underbrush before emptying out in a pond ringed with trees. It doesn’t take much convincing before their horses are tethered closer to the trail but still within view, the rest of them picking their way down to the water’s edge.

Faraday’s stripping before they’ve even had time to see their reflections.

Before long he’s down to his drawers and splashing out into the water, plunging ungracefully under before surfacing with his hair plastered across his forehead and spluttering water from his mouth.

“C’mon in,” he calls. “Feels great.”

Billy rolls his eyes and Goody chuckles beside him, both settling down on the dry ground to watch the show. It doesn’t take long to start, Faraday narrowing in on his favorite target and sending a shower of droplets in Vasquez’s direction. 

The other man shoots him a glare. “You will regret that, _cabrόn_.”

Stripping down himself, he wades out towards the center and wastes no time grappling Faraday down into the water in a mess of limbs and loud cursing.

When they’ve reached a kind of stalemate, Vasquez’s arm locked around Faraday’s neck but Faraday’s leg a twitch from sending Vasquez toppling into the drink, Faraday once more looks in their direction.

“C’mon, boys, don’t you want to wash off a bit? Water’s real cool.” He fixes them with his best pleading expression then gets the biggest shit-eating grin when Horne gets slowly to his feet.

“Now I’ll get in, if only to get you boys to stop trying to kill each other.” He fixes them with a pointed look and only shakes his head when they both let go and the sudden shift in balance sends them both slipping off their feet, prompting a round of laughter that dies down when Faraday’s a bit slower to right himself, Vasquez’s hand too casually beneath his elbow.

Sam speaks up from his spot on the ground, “Jacks’ right, why don’t you boys get to washing up yourselves before you go bothering the rest of us.”

Horne chooses that moment to wade out towards them and Faraday must’ve really twinged his leg because he doesn’t snark back and just splashes back into the water, rubbing hands through his hair in a cursory attempt at hygiene before giving up and floating on his back.

Sunlight is dappled coming through the thin layer of leaves on the trees and Horne sets to scrubbing himself with careful precisions, Vasquez a much messier picture beside him. Heaving a sigh, Sam stands to join them.

“Might as well go while the going’s good,” he says, whether to himself or to their remaining group Billy couldn’t say. The scar around his neck is prominent with nothing to obscure it, and Billy notices the way Goodnight flinches slightly at the sight before Sam goes out to join the others in the moving water.

The ground is soft and slightly damp and Billy wipes the dirt from his palms before reaching into his pocket for a cigarette that Goody takes with a tight but grateful smile. Smoke drifts up towards the trees.

It’s uncharacteristically quiet for all of a few minutes before the soft plunk of something falling into the water catches his attention, eyes darting to the side where Red is using some kind of hurriedly fashioned slingshot to fling pebbles in Faraday’s direction. It takes a couple more close calls before Faraday himself catches on.

He rights himself as the last pebble sends droplets directly onto his face and looks over in time to see Red send the next one flying, landing square in his chest before falling into the water with a satisfying plop, ripples spreading out and fading.

A grin slips back over Faraday’s face, “Get in here, you shit, or I’ll drag you myself.”

Then, in a move that has Billy’s eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise, Red stands and does just that, divesting all but his breechcloth before walking out and stopping just outside Faraday’s reach. He mouths something Billy can’t catch but it has a dangerous gleam sparking in Faraday’s eyes and before he knows it they’ve both slipped over casual as you please and got Vasquez boxed between them.

Judging by the grin Goody’s sporting beside him, Billy knows he’s not the only one who knows exactly where this is going. And sure enough not a moment later they pounce and Vasquez goes down in a sputter of colorful Spanish and water, leaving Horne and Sam to shake their heads and wipe droplets from their faces.

They resurface and Vasquez is quick to catch them both with a large splash of water, dousing them but not managing to wash the grins from their faces.

“Alright, alright,” Horne’s quiet voice cuts in. “You’ve had your fun, settle down now.”

Faraday opens his mouth to respond but doesn’t get the chance because suddenly Goodnight is standing and making his own way to the water, stripping off quickly as he goes, leaving Billy staring surprised and silent in his wake. “Well now, I think what we need here is some kind of formal challenge,” he says once he’s out in the middle of the pond with the rest of them. “A gentleman’s duel. I’m sure Billy’d be kind enough to judge, impartial as he is.”

He looks back over his shoulder and Billy narrows his eyes, wonders what he’s playing at. Goody just gives him a wink.

Somehow, he finds himself waist deep in the water, stone-faced and displeased but unable to refuse Goody when he’s been so clearly requested. The other men are smart enough to keep their opinions and their splashing to themselves and before long Goodnight throws an arm over his shoulders.

“Now who’s first?”

Faraday of course is quick to step up and Vasquez is about to square up as well when Sam clears his throat and comes to stand across from Faraday’s rapidly growing grin.

The water erupts into thousands of drops as each contender steps up and slaps their hand into the water at Billy’s cue, dousing each other thoroughly and sending the quiet spot spinning into louder and louder laughter, bickering rising up above the noise before each turn. Billy calls out a winner after each but it’s not long before the whole thing has devolved into a mess of indistinguishable splashing, water churning around their waists as Vasquez and Faraday get back to trying to drown each other and Red occasionally jumps in to mess with one or the other until they’ve both finally had enough and drag him down with them.

Content to stay out of the way, Billy’s watches from a safe distance as Red lets out a shocked, strangled sound when Vasquez bodily lifts him and throws him a few feet across the pond. Faraday’s near doubled over laughing and Vasquez soon joins him, Red glaring at them before swimming back over to exact his revenge.

He blames them entirely for his lapse in attention, the split second of distraction that allows Goody to stoop down and send an armful of water splashing up into his chest and face, leaving him blinking past the water suddenly dripping into his eyes. The pond goes silent around them.

“You will regret that.”

“You know, Billy,” Goodnight grins. “Somehow I don’t think I will.” And with that he promptly sends another splash of water in Billy’s direction, whooping in laughter when Billy tackles them both down into the water. His hair is a wet, tangled mess when they resurface and he carefully pulls out the hairpin as he stands, keeping it cupped in the palm of his hand as he pushes stray strands off his face.

The others look like they don’t know what hit them, and that and Goody’s laughter is enough to have Billy sending a wave of water in Goodnight’s direction before stepping back and heading for dry land, daring any of the others to try and get him with his back turned. They’re all smart enough to decline.

And it’s not long before Sam and Horne decide to join him in the relative safety of the water’s edge, Goodnight himself coming a minute later and settling down at Billy’s side to dry. The others wrestle for a while longer before Sam nods and Horne calls them in.

“Alright you varmints, that’s enough for one day,” he says. “Get back here and get yourselves dry.”

They’ve spent longer than they’d planned at this little spot, but they’re still in no hurry to leave. And they have no need to be. They’re drifting from one town to the next, refilling on whiskey and money and whatever else they need when the time comes and otherwise waiting for some new adventure to come their way. So they lay in the quiet of the trees, listening to the gentle sounds of the water, and let the heat of the sun dry their skin.

They make camp right there by their tethered horses, still able to hear the babbling of the stream through the crackling of the fire. Goody is warm and animated at his side, the others listening intently to the story Goody’s chosen for the evening, laughing and snorting in all the right places.

Faraday is the first to drop off, aided by a touch more alcohol than usual after the strain he put his leg through earlier in the day. Horne follows not too long after Goodnight’s story is through, and then Vasquez starts snoring slightly slumped over at his spot by the fire. Red kicks him lightly on his own way to bed and soon they’re both settling down on their bed rolls, going quiet and still until it’s only Goody, Sam and Billy left awake and staring up at the wide expanse of sky.

“I’m glad you two decided to stick around,” Sam says, meeting both their eyes and giving them a nod before getting to his feet. He goes to bed without another word and Goody sucks in a quiet breath beside him.

“Alright?” he asks lowly.

Goodnight nods, leans silently into his side before shoving to his feet. He holds out a hand to help Billy up as well. “Think I’m doing just fine.”

And there’s a tentative smile on his face and a hope in his eyes that has Billy’s mouth flicking up in return. They stretch out on their bedrolls and Billy stares back up at the stars, listening to the fire and the stream and the sounds of life around him, the push and pull of seven pairs of lungs.

He might not’ve chosen a life with these men, but he doesn’t regret that it’s with them that he threw his lot. 

He trusts them with his life.

And, sometimes, doesn’t necessarily mind them in it.


	5. Vasquez

Life as a wanted man is grueling. There is no rest, only moving from one place to the next with the feeling of a gun pointed in your back. It’s knowing any man could be out for your head. It’s knowing other men have put a price on you, have decided your worth.

It’s lonely.

Enough to drive a man insane.

Vasquez lived a long time on the run, and bunking with a dead man is one of the lesser evils he’d learned to live with. It was his life and he’d learned to get by. But he certainly didn’t hesitate when Chisolm offered him a few days back in the light.

A few days that have somehow turned into a few months, Rose Creek far behind them and their little group still holding fast. They are still a ‘merry band’ as Goodnight likes to say.

And life as a wanted man surrounded by six truly _loco_ and dangerous gunslingers? Less grueling, less lonely, but it is still enough to drive a man insane.

“Are you telling me Roy Clifton, _the_ Roy Clifton, got himself wrapped up in all of that?” Goodnight asks, paused halfway through a story to hear Sam’s news on one of the men therein.

Sam hums his assent and Goodnight shakes his head with a whistle.

“If all that man’s brains were dynamite, there wouldn’t be enough to blow his nose.”

There’s some snorted laughter and Vasquez lifts his voice over the sound of the horses. “Careful, _sabelotodo_ ,” he says. “Don’t want to give Faraday here any ideas.”

That gets more laughter, even from Faraday, who shoots Vasquez a look and snipes back, “If my brains were dynamite, I’d sure as hell be able to blow up something better than my nose. Blow up a whole damn city with what I’ve got up here,” he taps on the side of his head and grins.

“You’re full of shit, _guero,_ ” Vasquez says. “And you are not allowed near explosives again. I think we can all agree on that, no?”

Everyone murmurs their agreement and Faraday frowns, “Yeah well, hopefully we don’t have to deal with a goddamn gatling gun again. Then you can tell me not to blow things up.” He shifts in the saddle and pulls out his whiskey, ever present in the pocket of his vest.

Horne chooses that moment to break his silence. “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past,” he says. “Sometimes it’s best to live in the present. Enjoy what God has given to us and be thankful.”

And God has blessed them, no one can argue with that. Vasquez thanks the Lord every day that they are all alive and prays that they continue on this path together, finding happiness in their own ways even if it is perhaps not the most holy of lifestyles. He told Faraday in that church that there was no forgiveness for men like him, for men like _them_ , but he still prays for it every day. He likes to believe God listens.

“Well, how about instead of the past, we think about that town up ahead,” Sam says, drawing their attention forward and towards the shadowy outline of a settlement on the horizon. “Looks like we’ll be coming in just before supper.”

That gets conversation moving again, in the safe constraints of speculating sleeping arrangements and the availability of certain food and drink. They check guns and personal weapons. They adjust shirts and hats and make sure they look like decent enough men to ride into town.

They fall into a loose formation, Red and Billy in the center and Sam leading in front. He and Faraday fall towards the back as usual, Faraday nursing his whiskey and grimacing as his leg acts up but tries not to show it, Vasquez himself eyeing Red to make sure the younger man is well accounted for. They all know Goodnight has Billy in his sights at all times, and that Billy’s been around long enough to take care of himself, with a few years on at least half their group.

But Red is the youngest, and the newest to navigating a world not always the most welcoming towards people of different origins. He also tends to garner fear, rather than the misplaced condescension Billy receives. And fear is a dangerous thing. It makes men hateful and cruel. So they put him in the middle and Sam diffuses any unrest that arises with the same kind of easy authority that he carries with him everywhere.

“Oh look, they’ve brought out the welcome party,” Goodnight says, sarcasm layered on thick as they ride closer.

Billy huffs at his side, the closest he gets to a laugh most days. Vasquez lets his eyes roam over their group one last time, watches as each man subtly prepares for the confrontation ahead, then settles back on Red.

Red sits in silence. His bow and quiver are on his back, knife and hatchet in easier reach. The younger man turns to look at him now, returning his stare with a challenging expression that Vasquez raises a hand against, nodding back to the front where they’re about to ride up on the group of men waiting at the edge of town.

Sam is the first to speak, “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

They all bring their horses to a stop behind him, sit in their saddles with their hands ready to go for guns and weapons if need be.

“Afternoon,” a stocky man says, with beady, dark eyes that remind Vasquez of a lizard. “You boys just passing through?”

An ugly lizard.

Sam smiles pleasantly. “Was hoping to stay a night or two. We’ve been on the road a while, me and my men. Wanted a chance to sleep in a real bed, maybe get a wash and some decent food.”

“I see,” the man licks his lips, eyes darting around their group while the men at his back shift uncertainly. “Can’t say as we have any rooms available.”

Sam’s eyebrows raise at that. “Am I speaking to the owner of the only lodging in town?”

“I’m the sheriff.”

“Oh, the sheriff,” Sam says, like it’s all just a happy coincidence. “Always happy to meet a fellow man of the law. My name is Sam Chisolm, I’m a duly sworn warrant officer…”

Vasquez ducks his head, hiding a grin at the familiar speech and the reaction it brings. The men look stumped and Sam still has on that perfect face of pleasant civility as they stammer and try to come up with a response.

“Well, uh, Mr. Chisolm. We just don’t want any trouble round here. Sure you can understand that.”

Sam nods in understanding, “Of course, of course. We don’t want any trouble either, just some beds, like I said.”

“Right,” the man swallows and turns back to the men behind him, seemingly at a loss on how to proceed.

They mutter in low voices, darting anxious glances back up at their group, small snippets of their conversation carrying over.

 

_“...well heck, I don’t know....not like we can…”_

_“...ask Junie if she…”_

_“...can’t let that Indian...wives and children…”_

 

The seven of them shift noticeably at that, Vasquez clutching the reins and glancing over to see Red’s shoulders twitch. And it’s not like they didn’t know the issue was something along those lines, always is, but hearing it so blatant is always like a slap to the face. The only consolation is that the men around him don’t take it either, will tear down hateful words as easily as they draw guns.

The men continue on, oblivious to the sudden change in atmosphere and the eyes narrowed and calculating, fingers itching towards triggers in the silent promise of violence. Faraday is the only one to noticeably move, a scowl on his face as he pockets his whiskey.

Vasquez shakes his head in quiet disapproval, mouths, _“No, guero,”_ and pins Faraday with a look. Because he knows Faraday, knows his temper and his inclination to act on impulse. He also knows that Faraday is on a shorter fuse than usual today, pain from his leg making him quick to anger, whiskey dulling the ache but not the Irish temper.

He knows the look on Faraday’s face.

He knows Faraday is about to do something stupid.

And judging by the fire in his eyes and the careful way he’s shifting in the saddle, he’s aiming to fight them. Or at least throw some choice words in their direction that will, in the end, lead to fighting anyway.

Vasquez urges his horse next to Faraday’s as close as he can, ignoring the nervous glances he gets from the idiotic men still dithering in front of them, now stammering something about some kind of wood rot. He catches the way Red angles his head back to listen.

“Red can handle himself, _guero,_ ” he whispers.

Faraday’s jaw is clenched tight. “I know,” he hisses back.

Red twitches slightly in front of them, head going back to the front and shoulders straightening.

At this point, the others are well aware of what’s going on even though at a glance you’d never be able to tell, considering they haven’t so much as moved or glanced back in his and Faraday’s direction. And that’s because they’ve all come to a tacit agreement, without Vasquez’s approval, that Faraday is just Faraday and the only one with any real hope of dealing with him is Vasquez.

Because wrangling a drunk or angry Faraday is a sort of art, and while the responsibility is an odd change of pace he’s found he doesn’t entirely dislike it. After all, it oftentimes comes right alongside an awful lot of fun. It’s like his little brother who would follow him around and pester the hell out of everyone but who he loved all the same.

Only his little brother was never armed with a couple of peacemakers and the attitude of a surly mule.

Sam says something deceptively kind, Horne has unearthed another piece of jerky to chew on, and Vasquez is ready to see it all go to hell when suddenly Red wordlessly drops to the ground. He walks calmly past Sam’s horse and stops a few steps away from the men, all staring in open-mouthed shock. He raises his hands in the air, palms open, and takes another step forward, then another, until he’s standing unusually close to the sheriff who looks like he’s just been hit over the head with the church bell.

Then he just...stands. And stares. His knife and hatchet are at his side, his bow and arrow at his back, but his hands remain firmly in the air.

The unease grows and the man spits at Red’s feet, hisses something that has Vasquez’s blood boiling. But Red just stands. And stares. And waits.

Finally, the man snaps, takes a swing at Red as if that’ll somehow get him to go away. Red reciprocates in kind, darting forward with a quick right hook that sends the man tumbling to the ground. Silence spreads around them like a thick fog. Red calmly takes a few steps back, then slips back behind Sam and swings onto his horse without a word.

Vasquez doesn’t bother to hide the smile this time, not when Faraday is chuckling and grinning like a maniac beside him. Even Billy looks impressed through the stone-faced expression he always wears.

“Well now,” Sam finally says as the sheriff pulls himself to his feet. “I’d say you both handled that like men, don’t you? No need for any more trouble, now.”

The sheriff swallows and eyes them warily, taking in their easy stances and the hands resting a little too close to the guns at their hips. He licks his lips. “Right, don’t need any trouble.”

“Then I dare say we’ve reached an understanding,” Goodnight grins. “Gentleman, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Now hold on a minute, Goodnight,” Sam says, hammering the final peg into place as all the men blanch at the name. “I was hoping these men could direct us to the stables before we went our separate ways.”

One of the men jerks a thumb back over his shoulder, “They’re right there, sir. By the general store, sir. Can’t miss ‘em.”

“Well thank you,” Goodnight answers smoothly. “Now I think it’d be best if you go on and make sure everyone knows we don’t want any trouble. Last thing we want is to disturb the peace in this nice, quiet town.”

They break off in groups, heading back into town and hurrying out of sight until it’s just the seven standing and staring down an empty road.

Red has a pleased look on his face as Faraday rides up beside him.

“Let’s go find where they keep the whiskey in the goddamn place.”

And Lord help him, but that’s just what they do.


	6. Jack Horne

“...and that is how me and Billy here discovered another tactical use for a used up can of beans,” Goodnight says, chuckling as he adds, “And how I singed the eyebrows right off my face.”

Billy huffs in amusement beside him, “You looked terrible.”

“Yes, well, they grew back alright now didn’t they?” Goodnight grins.

Men chuckle and shake their heads, taking the entertainment for what it is as they ride out their days on the dusty trail. Horne doesn’t mind the stories, the talking and laughter, but sometimes he does believe their jokes go too far. They’re a rougher bunch than he, born and bred into the lifestyle rather than thrust into it so late in life, after settling with a wife and children and having it all stripped away.

He doesn’t envy them their ignorance, feels nothing but a wistful sadness at what he’s lost and what they’ll likely never have. Families long gone and in no position to be making new ones, not of the type or temperament to settle down, he knows with a resigned certainty that this is what they’ve got. Seven men brought together in violence, tied by blood into a different sort of family.

Most days they do all right, so long as no one loses their head.

“And of course Billy was fine, stepped out of the way just before,” Goodnight continues. “Left me the only one looking like a new-sheared sheep.”

“Knew it was a bad idea,” Billy says. They’re all riding close together in order to talk, and it’s a blessing that they’re on softer ground now so they can hear Billy’s low voice over the sounds of the horses.

Goodnight smiles good naturedly in response, “As you always do, _mon cher_.”

The sun is bright overhead but it’s not unbearable. The sky is a clear and beautiful blue, the vastness of the plains open all around them. They’re seven men moving towards an endless horizon, buffeted on by laughter and poor humor, kept afloat with too much alcohol and urged on by the promise of more adventure.

Horne will never find a way to fill the hole in his chest his family left behind; there’ll never be a day he doesn’t miss his wife and children and feel a pain that refuses to be dulled by the pull of time. But here now, surrounded by men he respects both despite and because of their flaws and shortcomings, he can’t help but feel at home. God made no man perfect and it’s the imperfections that make the good so much better.

“ _Jodidamente loco,_ ” Vasquez huffs under his breath. “ _Es por la gracia de Dios que todavía estamos vivos_.” (Fucking crazy. It’s by the grace of God that we’re sill alive.)

Billy shifts in the saddle and fixes Vasquez with a stare, face unflinching as always. “ _뭐_ ” _[mwo?]_ he says, apparently not taking kindly to the tone of Vasquez’s words. (What? But in this context more of a ‘the fuck did you say?’)

It’s not the first time they’d heard the man speak his native tongue but the instances are certainly few and far between. Enough so that they all up perk up a bit at the simple, deadpan word.

Faraday’s the first to open his own mouth in response, “Why do y’all feel the need to do that?” He pushes his hat up some and squints up at the sky, like he’s asking God for patience. And wouldn’t that just be the day. “If you’re insulting someone, or trying to make a joke, doesn’t make much sense to say it so they don’t understand.”

Vasquez lifts an eyebrow. “That what you think, _guero? Habla de la experiencia?_ ” (Speaking from experience?)

Billy shifts his gaze to Faraday. “내가 말한 고슬 알고 중븐해.” [ _naega malhan geos-eul algo chungbunhae._ ] (I know what I said.)

“What he said,” Vasquez grins, earning an unimpressed look from Billy and a laugh from Goodnight.

“Spoken as if you have any more an idea what he said than the rest of us.”

Vasquez shrugs. “ _Es la intención, no siempre el significado, lo que importa,_ ” he throws a quick wink in Billy’s direction. “Right, _amigo?_ ” (It’s the intention, not always the meaning, that matters.)

Billy doesn’t even blink. “ _아니_ _.”_ [ _ani_ ]. He faces forward again and makes it real clear he intends to ignore the rest of the conversation. (No)

Laugh a loud burst of sound against the quiet backdrop of the plains, Vasquez rocks back in his saddle and throws Faraday a smug look. The grin on his face is nothing short of a challenge and Horne hides a small sigh in his beard at the realization that they’re about to kick up an even greater fuss.

Sure enough, Faraday lets out a whine no man his age should be making without feeling at least some kind of shame. But Horne has long realized shame is one of the many things Faraday doesn’t know the meaning of, right alongside self-preservation and perhaps even common-sense.

“Fine, you want to talk to yourself you go right ahead.” He leads his horse away from Vasquez and closer to where Red Harvest has been riding at his other side, silent but watching and listening to everything that goes on in and around their little band.

Red shoots him a sideways glance, “ _Hina ~~u~~ n ~~u~~ ni?wai_?” (What do you want?)

Sam coughs slightly just ahead and lowers his face into the shadow of his hat; Faraday looks like a dog that’s just been kicked.

_“Et tu, Brute?”_ Goodnight laughs, a merry twinkle in his eye that’s saying he’s enjoying this far too much. Faraday pouts harder.

Vasquez laughs right along. “ _Oye_ , Red, _vas a ser un alborotador ahora, lo puedo sentir_. Give Faraday a run for his money, no?” (Hey, Red, you’re going to be a troublemaker now, I can feel it.)

Horses still moving along under the hot stare of the sun, Red looks from Vasquez to Faraday and back again before quirking his mouth up at the side. “ _Ke nʉ ʉ naki̱supanaʔitʉ_.” (I don't understand you.)

Faraday lets out another whine, this one much more offended sounding, like a dog that’s been kicked and is now thinking of biting back. “You want to pick a fight with me, _vaquero_ , just say it straight.”

“No fight _._ Just a conversation between friends,” he grins in Red’s direction.

Red shakes his head, “ _Miar ~~u~~ n ~~u~~._ ” (I’m leaving.) He nudges gently at his horse's sides and rides up next to Sam, effectively leaving Horne and Billy the only sane ones in the midst of a rather troublesome trio, two of which are now cackling like jackals and leaving the last to scowl into his bottle of liquor.

Finally, Goodnight seems to realize Faraday isn’t entirely on board with the joke, and that the scowl on his face is less about being cross for the sake of it and more a combination of heat, pain, and feeling out of the loop. They’d all realized in their own way that Faraday wasn’t quite as comfortable with his lack of education as he’d like them to believe. He glances back at Horne and they shared a weighted look, one that breaks when Horne gently clears his throat.

“God divided men at the Tower of Babel. We can accomplish more if we no longer divide ourselves.”

Sam hums in calm agreement but the others stay silent, squinting ahead or staring at him in varying degrees of confusion. He doesn’t know why; he’s been perfectly clear in his admonishment. It seems to work regardless as silence falls over them again, no more ribbing to set things on a dangerous course.

After a moment, Vasquez rides closer to Faraday. “ _Lo siento, guerito,_ ” he says. “I--” (I’m sorry, guerito.)

“ _Cá mhéad uair is gá dom a rá nach féidir liom a thuiscint duit?_ ” Faraday shoots back. (How many times do I have to say I don't understand you?)

Everyone turns to look at him in shock; Faraday shrugs and takes another drink of whiskey, eyes watching them carefully even as a smirk grows on his face. “None of you heard Irish before? Think we didn’t have any fancy words of our own?”

Goodnight laughs open and long and Vasquez joins in after a moment of stunned silence.

“Hey, Goodnight,” Faraday calls over the clamor, grin mischievous and terrible but also perfectly right on his face. “How many syllables is _cúl tóna?_ ” (Dickhead)

“Why, I believe that’s three.”


	7. Red Harvest

The moon has waxed and waned and they’ve begun to feel the slightly cooler winds of autumn, still riding together from town to town, across open prairie, and settling down around a fire at night. They ride in silence. They ride in the whispers of hushed conversations or in bright, flowing laughter that carries them along like a river.

Red has lived in silence long enough to appreciate its nuances, learned how to listen to the voices of the world around him and let them keep him company on lonely nights. Silence is how he became a man, silence is how he became an outcast. He had a new path to walk and he walked it in silence as well, until he came upon a group of men intent on drawing him back into the world.

They’re riding out of another town in an ever-growing number that he’s long stopped counting and Red can feel the eyes of the townsfolk like burs scratching at his skin. Sam is beside him, sitting tall in the saddle and daring anyone to say a word as they move past, and Horne is riding silent and imposing at his opposite flank. The rest are a noisy bunch behind.

“Well now, what is this,” Goodnight says, obviously seeing something the rest of them don’t. “You boys mind if we stop for a moment?”

There’s a general murmur of assent and they urge their horses to a stop, waiting in a loose circle as Goodnight and Billy dismount and walk into a small shop with a sagging front stoop. A painted sign by the door says _Dryridge Daily._

They’re in and out before too long and Goodnight swings back up into the saddle with a bundle of paper under his arm. He holds it with one hand and the reins in another as they continue towards the town’s edge. No one else seems too interested in Goodnight’s newspaper at the moment, but they all turn their ears his direction when he lets out a little surprised sound.

“October 23rd, well I’ll be damned.” He turns to Billy and smiles. “I do believe that means you’re another year older as of this very day, Billy. How many years is it now?”

Billy makes a noncommittal sound.

“Well either way, congratulations are in order. It’s not often you’re fortuitous enough to catch the date itself with a life like ours,” he gets a thoughtful tilt to his head. “Be a shame to pass it up.”

There’s a moment of silence, everyone seeming to be processing that statement.

“Well, I suppose we could do something,” Sam finally says. “But we’re on the trail tonight, not sure if we’ll have much in the way of options.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a way to enjoy the night just fine,” Goodnight is happy and relaxed in the saddle, obviously pleased with the idea of a night of merry making for Billy’s sake. It’s good to see him this way. Too often Red looks over and catches Goodnight caught in the shadow of the owl, eyes wide like he’s straining to see wings and talons in the dark.

Conversation flows around him but he mostly tunes it out, lets the shape of their words melt into the landscape and become no more than a thrum of sound, cut off from meaning as he frees his mind to think of other things. He watches the clouds, the grasses, the sway of his horse’s shoulders. He no longer walks in silence.

He still doesn’t talk much most days though, even though the other men are all now aware of his ability to understand and speak a fair amount of English. He communicates with actions and looks and judgmental stares more than anything else. It’s easier that way. And the others never really push him to change, learning to read him with an accuracy that is becoming slightly unnerving at times.

They take a certain pride in knowing when he’s unhappy with a meal, or if he’s tired and likely to fall asleep earlier than usual. It’s like being watched by the keen eyes of his mother, the stern but encouraging gaze of his father, the knowing glint of his brothers and sisters.

He realized weeks ago that he had found a new family in them, a strange, broken, and questionably sane family but a family nonetheless. It’s nice to feel like he belongs. Like he has a place to return to, to be welcomed, to feel safe.

And he does, feel safe. He sleeps with them near the fire, rides with them into towns full of people he knows would just as soon see him dead. But he knows what the men around him are capable of, all warriors in their own right, and he knows they would never let anyone touch a hair on his head. They’ve made their position clear on that.

It upset him at first, frustrated him why they thought he needed protection when he had killed men, many men, done it in front of them quite blatantly even. He could handle himself. But then he realized that wasn’t what it was at all. And that he wasn’t the only one being protected, but perhaps just the most blatantly, the easiest to single out as the youngest and least likely to kick up a fuss at the occasional codling.

Faraday’s perhaps the closest in age, and with his leg needs the most help getting around day to day, but they all know Faraday can’t so much be offered a hand up without pulling a face at it. So the misplaced affection goes to Red.

And he lets them do it. Knows the importance of feeling like a family, feeling like they’ve got at least some piece of good in the world. Some way they’re doing right by themselves and those around them.

“ _Oye,_ Red,” Vasquez rides up beside him, ducking down a bit and drawing his gaze from where it had been trained on the up and down rhythm of his horse’s hooves. “Dangerous to fall asleep, no?”

Red gives him a look, because they both know he was nowhere near drifting off. Vasquez just grins and tilts his head back towards the center of the group, where conversation is still swirling around in a mixture of low and high and soft and loud voices. He squints slightly at the unpleasant idea of trying to parse it all out.

Vasquez decides to spare him the work. “We’re thinking of stopping early. Spend some time drinking to celebrate the day.”

“Drinking, talking, sharing heartening tales about the man of the hour,” Goodnight chimes in, ignoring the unimpressed look Billy shoots him.

“Hope you know we’re gonna need to stop at another town sooner than usual,” Faraday says, patting his pocket with a gleam in his eye. “Way we’re gonna go through the whiskey tonight.”

Sam shakes his head. “No matter how much you drink, next town isn’t gonna move any closer.”

But Red knows that the rest of them will make sure to spare a little in their bottles, just enough to keep Faraday level if he runs dry a few days out. Same way they all know where Billy keeps the extra cigarette for Goodnight if he’s ever more than a hundred paces away from the other man.

They protect each other in the small ways they can.

Gathered around the campfire later that day, settling down on bedrolls and loose dirt, they wipe their hands of the grime of the day and pull out their bottles and tobacco. Smoke rises and mixes in the air. Billy sits in what looks like grudging amusement as Goodnight clears his throat and starts a toast.

“To our good friend Billy Rocks, a man one is definitely better off to befriend than to try and kill.” They drink, but Goodnight doesn’t sit down quite yet. He turns to face Billy directly. “I know this isn’t your idea of an evening, but we are glad for the chance to show our appreciation for your birth so many years ago today. May there be many more years to come.”

They all drink again.

“Happy birthday, son,” Horne says in that quiet way of his, a smile on his face that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He lifts his bottle to his lips and the rest follow suit.

Red still hasn’t developed a fondness for the taste of their liquor. He drinks after a few other words are shared, small mouthfuls that taste like nothing meant to be consumed. Their food is for the dogs but their drinks, he’s found, are often not even suited for living things.

Horne doesn’t drink much past the initial rounds either, Sam stopping not too long after him, but the other four keep going, Billy egged on with Goodnight’s arm slung around his shoulders and some of Faraday’s ‘good stuff’ proffered like a gift.

The sun sets and the moon rises and smoke drifts up against a dark, starlit sky. Faraday is singing about a three-legged dog, Vasquez and Goodnight nearly choking with laughter, and even Billy cracks a smile after Faraday nearly falls over trying to do a demonstration of one of the more colorful verses. Horne laughs along, loud and bright, and Red can’t help but smile, a quiet laugh building in his chest as he watches Faraday continue his awkward song and dance around the fire.

His eyes catch Sam’s and there’s a smile there too, hidden in the twinkle of his eyes rather than the curve of his mouth. The sky is dark and vast but they’ve made this patch of earth their own. They’ve filled it with warmth and laughter.

Faraday’s song draws to a close, a last line about that poor dog finally finding somewhere to belong, finding a one-eared cat and a blind old dog and howling at the moon. Faraday howls right along with it, head tilted back and eyes closed against the sky. Vasquez joins in, voice a touch deeper than Faraday’s own.

The night is open and endless and the days stretch on before them, beckoning with promise and adventures yet to come. The fire is a bright, living thing between them, it flickers and glows and Red feels a warmth growing in his own chest, expanding out from his ribs and pushing up until he’s ready to burst.

He tilts back his head and howls, joins the other two with a cry loud and long and filled with a kind of happiness he hasn’t felt in ages, a joy he can’t hope to express with words.

 

 _This_ is home.


End file.
